


After the Storm

by katajainen



Series: Season of Kink 2019: LOTR edition [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Confused Emotions, Confused lust, Implied future polyamorous relationship, Kissing in the Rain, Multi, Rain, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wet Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 05:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20830304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katajainen/pseuds/katajainen
Summary: The two people dearest to him in this world, and he knew he did not love them the same. So it was, and so it must be, and yet-





	After the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Can I please have some Suspension of Disbelief? Because I was thinking September when I wrote this- and before I checked the timeline XD
> 
> \---
> 
> Fills the Wet/dirty square of my [Season of Kink bingo card.](https://katajainen.dreamwidth.org/23412.html)
> 
> ETA: many thanks to saraste for the quick look-see and encouragement :)

It was the night after the third of November, after what would come to be called the Battle of Bywater. 

All evening, the weather had been unseasonably warm, still and well-blanketed by low-hanging clouds. Right before sunset, a faint drizzle had begun to fall– very light, barely enough to curl the hair upon a hobbit’s feet and soften the shapes of the hills behind a silvery veil of mist.

The aftermath of the battle was still a grim sort of work, but as Sam made his way back to the Cottons' house, the soft rain clung gently to him, like a ghostly comforting embrace.

Many hours later, when he awoke in the night, the rain had grown heavy enough to make a sound: a steady watery rush that made him glad of the solid roof above his head. But that was not what had awoken him. He sat up on the kitchen floor and pushed away the blanket. On the window bench, Frodo appeared fast asleep. (Mrs. Cotton had offered him a bed, but he wouldn’t hear of driving someone from their own, even temporarily. Sam had insisted on the bench.)

The door to the back garden stood ajar, letting in a shivering trail of faint golden light upon the dark flagstones. As quietly as he could, Sam crept closer and peeked out.

A lantern was burning upon the doorstep, and in the flickering circle of light stood Rosie Cotton, her arms wide open and and her face turned up towards the pouring rain.

‘What in all the heavens’ name are you doing?’ Sam hissed as he stepped outside.

She turned to him with a soft laugh, pushing a dripping lock of hair away from her eyes. ‘It’s clean,’ she said, smiling wide, and smoothed her hands down the pristine white shift already clinging to her skin. ‘That awful chimney of theirs always made even the rain come down sooty.’

Sam could clearly see the shape of her through the thin wet cloth, could see how pink her– no. He set his shoulders and looked away. ‘Come back inside,’ he said shortly. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

‘No,’ countered another voice behind him. ‘She’s catching back her life, I think.’ 

And then Frodo pushed past him, onto the doorstep and out into the downpour, and Sam found he could not look away from those two, the ones dearest to him in this world, could not unhear the sound of them giggling like fauntlings no more he could unsee the raindrops running in rivulets down Frodo's bare neck and into his shirt, the clinging pale cotton somehow more revealing than any true nakedness he had witnessed before. His blood felt overly hot pounding in his veins, his skin drawn too taut over his flesh as he ached with a yearning he would not name.

Yet as Rosie turned to take his hand, making to pull him out from beneath the meagre protection of the eaves, he stumbled back, his refusal instant and too crude. She eyed him for a moment, her mouth pressed into a tight line in her fair face, before stepping smartly around him and into the house.

'She is waiting for you to go after her, I think.' Frodo had joined him under the eaves, the step barely wide enough for the both of them and the lantern. The soft yellow light glistened on raindrops clinging to his eyelashes and the dark curls of his hair, outlining the curve of his smile with an unearthly shimmer.

Sam swallowed hard and looked down to his feet. 'Might as well be so, Mr. Frodo, but seeing as I haven't spoken to her yet, now would hardly be the proper time, now would it?' 

'Why not?'

Sam glanced up in surprise – for surely that was a jest, but Frodo’s dear familiar face showed only honest curiosity. So he tried to explain. 'If I went to talk to her right this minute,' he said, 'after seeing– well, after seeing her everything, as it were, she might think that was the only thing I'm after, and I would not have her think that of me.'

'But you _ are _ after that, unless I'm much mistaken.' And _ this _was solid good teasing, and Sam felt his entire face flush hot.

'Yes,' he admitted. 'She's a pretty lass, all right. But that's not _ all _ she is, and I want her to know it.'

'Oh, Sam.' Frodo's hand, cold and wet from the rain, came up to cradle his heated cheek. Without thinking, Sam leaned into the gentle touch, and his lips brushed the soft inside of Frodo's wrist, drawing a sharp breath from him.

'I should not have done that,' Sam burst out, horrified, staggering back and knocking down the lantern. The light went out with a hiss and a sputter. 'It was not right.' A shiver went down his spine and through his limbs that was not from the rain and the night. The two people dearest to him in this world, and he knew he did not love them the same. So it was, and so it must be, and yet–

'On the contrary– I think that was precisely the right thing to do.' Under the cover of darkness, Frodo leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth, soft and brief like the touch of a butterfly's wing, yet burning all the same.

It felt as if all the world stood still for a moment, and Sam could hear his own heartbeat, leaping and bounding like a startled hare, drowning out the quiet pitter-patter of rain. His lips were tingling, and his whole body was aching for another touch, another caress, another kiss. 

'Perhaps it is not only Rosie and you who should talk,' said Frodo, and his breath was as warm on Sam's cheek as his hand had been cold. 

And Sam could not find the words to answer him.

'Consider it,' said Frodo, touched his hand briefly, and went back inside.

Sam stayed out for a long while afterwards, staring out into the dying rain, thinking about how love could be different, yet same enough. And what Rosie Cotton might say when he told her that.

* * *

_ Sam Gamgee married Rose Cotton in the spring of 1420 [–-], and they came and lived at Bag End. And if Sam thought himself lucky, Frodo knew that he was more lucky himself; for there was not a hobbit in the Shire that was looked after with such care._

\- J. R. R. Tolkien: _The Return of the King, _'The Grey Havens'.


End file.
